


These Things Take Forever

by heathered



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Post-War, Romance, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-08
Updated: 2009-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-26 11:29:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10785873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathered/pseuds/heathered
Summary: Seamus doesn't know what this is.





	These Things Take Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

The lumpy mattress in the bedroom of the flat above the pub dips, then springs back up, and Seamus opens his eyes. Blearily, he can make out Dean's form, slim and dark against the shaded window. The sun isn't quite up, but he knows that Dean's leaving anyway. Somewhere along the line, it became how his mornings ended more often than not – with Dean leaving. Dean doesn't keep a strict schedule, but Seamus knows that he works best in the mornings. Hard not to notice things like that about your best mate over the years. Sort of like how he knows that Dean also gets up before dawn when he wants to go to his favorite spot and think. Seamus wonders which it is today.  
  
He's not a morning person himself, or much of a thinker for that matter, and he doesn't have to open the pub till much later. So, he simply lies there and watches Dean locate his clothes, not mentioning that he’s just put on Seamus’ jeans instead of his own. If Dean's noticed that he's come awake, he doesn't say anything. Seamus is mostly okay with that, he thinks. So far, it's been difficult for them to know what to say anyway. Dean grabs his pullover on his way out of the bedroom, and Seamus stares after him a moment before he settles back against the rumpled sheets, wondering just when the hell this happened.   
  
Unconsciously, he moves into the spot still warm from Dean and drifts off again.   
  
**   
  
"Oi, get me another pint fairly lively, will ye? I’ve not got all evenin’."  
  
"Ah, bollocks; you’re here ‘till closin’ every night, Flynn. ‘Course you’ve got all evenin’. I’m gettin’ to it.” Seamus takes his time and helps a group of customers from out of town before serving Flynn his fourth pint. Work’s always busy enough to provide a good distraction.  
   
"Finnigan! Chips are up for table three, and they’re getting cold."   
  
Seamus glances back at Katie. "Think you might take it to ‘em yourself for once? Hands are fairly full at the moment, which you’ve clearly not noticed."   
  
"As if _my_ hands aren’t full? Get over yourself, Seamus. It’s a Friday night; everyone’s busy. You know we’re a server short since Shannon called in sick."   
  
"All the bleedin’ Irish pubs in London, and I choose the one with Bell runnin’ the kitchen," he mutters, shooting her a glare as he drops his rag below the counter and grabs the plate from the kitchen window. Katie merely flutters her lashes at him and goes back to the fryer. He skirts the bar and brings the plate of chips – which, it turns out, aren’t the slightest bit cold – to the four American girls at table three. Naturally, they all need refills on their drinks, and Seamus grins, holding up a hand before they start to remind him what they were each drinking. "White wine, martini, Jack and ginger, and a pint o’plain for the girl after me own heart."   
  
They each grin at him, too charmed to comment on how long they were waiting on their chips, and the other three decide they’d like to switch to a pint of plain, as well. Seamus winks and heads back for the bar, picking up the rag and wiping away a spill before filling the girls’ order.   
  
It’s been a long evening, but Seamus has barely felt it pass. Tiring as it can often be, he loves his work, and this place – the sounds, the smells, the people. One day he’ll have a place like it, and it’ll have _his_ name above the door, be it Shay’s or Finnigan’s; he’s not yet decided which. For now, he’ll make do with managing Rafferty’s. The old man doesn’t work as much as he used to, and Seamus takes most of the night shifts anyway. It’s one reason Rafferty gave him the flat upstairs to let.   
  
"Jaysus, boy. Where’s me pint?"   
  
"Gettin’ to it," Seamus says, pulling another draft for Flynn.   
  
**   
  
It’s nearly time to close up, and things are slowing down a bit. The kitchen closes at one, so Katie’s left, and even Flynn’s reaching into his pocket to settle his tab for the night.   
  
Seamus can’t quite stop himself from glancing at the door every minute or so.   
  
He allows himself a moment to lean against the bar for the first time since he walked in. There wasn’t a spare moment for a break, and most of the people here this late don’t particularly care. Flynn drops his money on the counter and slides clumsily off his stool. "Gotta use the jacks," he slurs, heading for the restroom.   
  
It isn’t until Flynn’s nearly to the exit that Seamus remembers to grab the money he left on the counter. As it happens most evenings, Flynn’s left about twenty quid too much, and Seamus moves quickly to the door, pressing the extra money into Flynn’s free hand just as the door swings open. He ushers Flynn out, and when he glances up, his heart just about leaps into his throat as his mind screams, _fuck. Finally._   
  
Dean sidesteps the drunken man and walks in, smiling easily at Seamus. "Good timing, yeah?"   
  
"Aye," Seamus recovers and returns Dean’s careless grin. "Alright, mate?"   
  
He claps his best friend on the shoulder as the door closes behind them, and he can feel the warmth through Dean’s clothes, the slope of his firm shoulder. There’s a fleck of paint on his throat. Seamus’ thumb brushes the seam on Dean’s shirt for just a millisecond before he drops his hand, careful not to linger too long. No one knows, of course.   
  
Seamus moves to the bar to pour Dean a pint, and finishes closing up as the remaining customers settle their tabs and get ready to go. He makes idle conversation with Dean, each asking about the other’s day, and everything is as normal as ever. Since the war ended, he’s barely gone a day without seeing Dean or talking to him, at least briefly. It’s not something they’d ever talk about out or anything, but after the year they spent not knowing if they’d see each other again, they can never seem to make up for enough time.   
  
By the time Dean finishes his drink and gets off his stool, Seamus is wiping down the tables and upending the chairs. His hand stops its circular movement against the table as Dean glances at him, and their eyes lock briefly. Dean leaves a couple pounds on the bar and, as usual, goes out the side door, the one closest to the stairs leading up to the flat.   
  
Seamus keeps working, maybe a bit faster than usual, with the anticipation that Dean will be waiting when he’s finished.   
  
**   
  
Lately, it’s weird being out with his other friends, the ones he’s not sort-of-fucking.   
  
Especially when Dean’s there too. Seamus has a rare night off, and he’s spending it at Ron’s new flat. He’s just moved out of the place he shared with Harry and Hermione for the last year and a half after the war. Everyone figured they’d end up living apart at some point, but it has to be strange, at first. Ron seems excited, and proud of his new place, but happy to have his friends around him for a bit of a housewarming. The only piece of furniture so far is the sofa, so everyone’s grouped on the floor in front of it.   
  
"Thanks for helping me break in my new place, and all," Ron lifts his shot glass – part of the set Seamus brought over as a gift – and tosses back another shot of firewhiskey.   
  
"C’mon; don’t get all mushy on us, mate," Harry laughs and sets up another shot for his best friend. Hermione has no such comment, because her eyes have been suspiciously shiny-looking all evening.   
  
"Bugger off, Potter," Ron laughs and picks up the framed sketch of the three of them that Dean gave him as a gift. "Not too late to get you scribbled out of this thing, y’know. Dean could put a tree there, or something. ‘s real nice by the way, Dean. Good thing to have."   
  
Dean grins. "Glad you like it, mate. Had to do something to top that … whatever it was, that you got for my birthday last year."   
  
"Oi! I spent good money on that, I’ll have you know. Heard Muggles use them a lot, for art stuff."   
  
"When they’re eight," Hermione smirks over at Ron. “At least, that’s when my parents bought me an Etch-a-Sketch."   
  
"Thought this was supposed to be my party," Ron mutters, even as Hermione leans over and kisses his cheek.   
  
"Well, I like it," Dean laughs and reaches over to snatch some crisps out of the bowl in front of Seamus, and their eyes meet as he draws back. "Alright?"   
  
Sometimes, Seamus can’t believe Dean’s able to act so normal when they’re out with their friends. It was easy for Seamus, too, at first, and now he just wants to smack Dean, or haul off and tell everyone what they’ve been up to for the last six months. But he doesn’t even know if Dean wants anyone else to find out. It’s another one of the things that they spend so much time _not_ talking about in Seamus’ flat at night.   
  
But then, he’s never cared about that before. He shrugs as he crunches on a pretzel. "’Course I am. Got my whiskey, and my best mates around me. Oh, and you, o’ course."   
  
"Sod off, wanker." Dean chuckles and sits back against the front of the couch as Luna arrives, late as usual. She waves to everyone, gives Ron a kiss and a package, and plops down between Harry and Dean on the floor.   
  
"Hello, everyone."   
  
Dean grins and wraps his arm around Luna’s waist, hugging her against his side. Seamus can’t help watching, noticing that Dean’s hand stays at her waist as they talk. He knows they’re close friends, even closer since the war, and that there was a thing, sort of, about a year ago. He knows that Dean’s into birds, or was into them before. Is he into birds now?   
  
Seamus doesn’t know if he’s queer, or what. He can’t say he ever gave it a thought before he and Dean toppled into bed half a year ago. All he knows is that this thing they’ve got has become a habit that he doesn’t particularly want to break.   
  
And that he doesn’t like the way Dean and Luna are practically fucking snuggling.   
  
**   
  
The first time was almost an accident.   
  
Anyway, it’s kind of a blur now.   
  
First anniversary of the battle, and neither of them had wanted to go to any of the parties, or felt like celebrating at all. Seamus had closed up the pub and they’d spent half the night getting pissed out of their skulls. He doesn’t even remember much of the rest of it. They’d gone upstairs to his flat and fallen into bed. Presumably, they’d dropped off to sleep. All Seamus can remember clearly is waking up to feel Dean’s lips on his throat, and after that it’s a jumble of sensations. Rustling fabric as clothes landed on the floor. Slick skin and sweat. Frantic fingers. Mumbled curses and Dean’s quick, harsh gasps in his ear.   
  
Just enough to know for sure that it had really happened.   
  
It’s six months later, and they’re in bed again, on the same lumpy mattress, and Dean’s gasping in his ear and it occurs to Seamus that they’ve been recreating that night over and over again, this whole time.   
  
**   
  
Dean’s dropped by the pub much earlier than usual. He simply sits at a small table in the corner, sketching on his pad, and Seamus tries not to get too distracted. It’s busy enough that it’s not hard.   
  
They chat a bit when Seamus gets a break; nothing consequential.   
  
Eventually, Luna shows up, and Seamus feels a sort of lurching in his chest when he realizes that’s who Dean’s been waiting for. Though it’s pretty bloody stupid, Seamus supposes, to think that Dean’d be hanging around just to hang around. They sit huddled together over some book or other, and Shannon brings them drinks.   
  
Seamus feels more and more irritable as the evening passes, and he has to stop himself from snapping at a customer more than once. He can’t help wondering when the hell they’ll be finished their little date, and what in Merlin’s name was possessing Dean to flaunt her right the fuck in front of him. He knew they’d not put a name to whatever this was, and wasn’t even sure _he_ wanted to call it a relationship, but seriously. What the fuck?   
  
"What’s got your knickers in a twist, Finnigan?" Katie smirks as she sets freshly-cut lemon and lime slices below the counter and refills the little dishes of nuts. Seamus scowls.   
  
"Don’t you have wings to burn?"   
  
**   
  
At closing time, Dean has the bloody nerve to come back. The pub’s empty when he does. Seamus is wiping down the bar, and glances up. He’s had a couple hours to stew. "What’re you doin’ here?"   
  
Dean blinks, probably because in all this time, neither of them has ever asked the other that question. "Well," he says slowly, not taking his eyes off Seamus, "what do you think?"   
  
"Hell if I know. Figured you'd be busy, like." Seamus shrugs and glances pointedly toward the table he and Luna had shared earlier.  
  
It seems to take Dean a moment to put it together. Fucker. "Oh; what -- with Luna?" Dean's expression clears, and he smiles. "It's nothing, mate; I might be doing some illustrations for her next book."   
  
"Look, I don't give a rat's arse, aye? Looked cozy enough with her, so I can't figure why you'd be sniffin' round here now."  
  
A pause. "Wait ... mate, are you ..." Dean drops his voice a bit, "you're jealous?"   
  
"Fuck you." Seamus jams a hand into his pocket and turns away, wiping furiously at the counter.  
  
"No; it's -- it's cool, Shay." Dean walks behind the bar and lifts his hand toward Seamus', and for a moment Seamus thinks Dean's going to, like, take his hand or something. But Dean only grabs the towel he was using and sets it aside so that Seamus has to focus on him instead of the fingerprints on the wood. "It's cool. I mean ... I know we don't ever really talk about it, this, but --"   
  
"I don't want to talk about it." He's not even locked the door yet; someone could walk in. And Dean's too close, almost like he doesn't even care. But despite all the thoughts he's been having recently, he's not ready to start examining this, he doesn't think. "I don't fuckin' want to talk." Roughly, Seamus grips the back of Dean's neck and yanks him close; their lips crash together, and he can't think at all.   
  
**   
  
In the morning, Seamus leaves Dean sleeping for once. He can't remember the last time he was motivated to get up at this damnable hour, but he can't sleep, and he didn't know what to do about the fact that he was practically wrapped around Dean when he woke. It'd felt nice, he supposed, but jesus. This was getting a little too ... something.   
  
He gets dressed quickly and rather carelessly, and makes his way out of the flat and down the stairs. As he walks around to the front of the building, he nearly bumps into Luna, who's got her face turned upward, somewhere in the direction of his bedroom window. Brow furrowing, Seamus steps right in front of her. "Lo," he says gruffly, wishing he didn't sound so defensive.   
  
Luna only smiles. "Hello, Seamus. It's good to see you; I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk last night."   
  
Last night. That certainly doesn't help to clear his expression. "Aye; well, you looked busy. What're you after, then? We don't open till late."   
  
"Oh, I know. I was looking for Dean, actually. He wasn't home when I went to his place, you know."   
  
"What makes you think he'd be here?" Seamus asks, maybe a bit too quickly.   
  
All he gets in response is an indulgent smile, and Luna holds up the bag she's carrying. "Muffin? I meant to share them with Dean, but since you're here, and you look like you could use one ..."   
  
Luna has barely said anything, but somehow Seamus is already feeling like an arse. He sighs a bit. How the fuck could anyone stay annoyed with Luna? "Aye; might could use one. Was just on my way out for food, or somethin'."   
  
"Lovely! They're my own recipe. Cranberry, with a little essence of gurdyroot. Daddy likes it in tea, but I find that adding it to food instead makes for a much more pleasant taste." She leads them over to a bench and hands him the bag.  
  
"Aye," Seamus says simply, well used to her random tidbits by now. He did hope the muffins were alright. Who knew what the hell a gurdyroot was. "Listen; you want some coffee, or somethin'? Can't promise what we've got in the pub is any good; mostly it's for drunks who can barely taste it anyway."   
  
"Oh no; I've brought some, thank you," she grins and gestures to the bag. "At the bottom, under the smaller bag with the muffins."   
  
"Thanks." Seamus smiles at her as he fishes out muffins and coffee and hands her some. He bites into his own; it's not bad.   
  
"Dean is helping me with work," Luna says without a prompt. She plucks a cranberry out of her muffin and eats it, licking a crumb off her bottom lip.  
  
"He might've mentioned that," Seamus replies, leaving off the 'last night'.  
  
"We're not together like that. Haven't been for a long time."  
  
When Seamus glances at Luna, she's watching him with that look of hers, and it's highly unnerving. "Doesn't matter to me either way, Luna," he says carefully.   
  
"It's perfectly normal, you know," she goes on as if he hasn't said anything, "to be worried, I mean. But he really cares about you."   
  
"I don't know what you're talkin' about, alright?" Seamus bristles. Has Dean said something to her? Do they _talk_ about him? "Where is it you're gettin' these ideas?"  
  
"You're connected," she says simply. "And it's the way he talks about you. Don't worry; your secret's safe for as long as you want it to be. How's the muffin?"   
  
Seamus is finding this a bit hard to process. "What?"   
  
"The muffin, Seamus. Do you like it? I wonder if perhaps I was a bit too heavy-handed with the gurdyroot."   
  
"'s fine," he mumbles, "look; I -- I should go. Got things to do, and whatever." To get rid of the crumbs, he wipes his hands on the thighs of his jeans, and it's only then that he realizes he's put on Dean's instead of his own. Noticing something in the pocket, he fishes it out, and unfolds a dog-eared sketch. A blond man with one arm around another man, one with dark skin who's resting his head on the blond's shoulder. They're both smiling.   
  
"You look beautiful together," Luna says, and he realizes that she's been peeking. It's nearly impossible for him to look at her, and instead he stares at the sketch until it's burned into his memory.  
  
"'s just some picture."   
  
**   
  
Seamus has all his work done early. The bar is gleaming, and the tables, except for one, have their respective chairs turned upside-down on top. When Dean walks in, Seamus is sitting with a bottle of Harp. If Dean finds it strange, he doesn't say anything, only dropping into the seat across from Seamus.   
  
"What's going on?"   
  
Seamus shrugs, and edges an extra bottle toward Dean. "Nothing; just ... sorry I got weird, last night."   
  
"No worries, mate. Worked out alright in the end, didn't it?"   
  
"Aye; I reckon it did." He frowns. "You really, ehm, want to talk, and shite?"   
  
Dean is silent a moment. "Dunno. If you want to." He uncaps his beer. "Might be good to figure out what's happening here."   
  
"I'm not a pouf, or nothin'," Seamus blurts. "'s not like that. Never fancied any other lads."   
  
"Me either," Dean says quickly.  
  
Seamus doesn't know if he feels better for having made that clear. Kind of strange to talk to the guy you're screwing about how you're not a pouf. Especially when you've got his bloody trousers on. But it's different with Dean, he thinks. And he really doesn't think it would be like this with any other bloke. "Guess it doesn't really matter."  
  
Dean smiles wryly. "Probably not."  
  
"It's just gettin' harder, you know."   
  
"What is?"   
  
"Watchin' you go, in the mornin'. Every time."   
  
"Well, I wasn't sure if you ..." Dean trails off and looks at him. "It gets harder for me not to stay, Shay."   
  
It's sort of a relief to hear that Dean's been going crazy the last little while, too. "So, what now?"   
  
Neither of them speaks for a while as they finish their beers. It's sort of a tricky question. Do they start dating now, or something? Start holding hands? Should they tell people? Or do they just go upstairs again?   
  
Dean's the first one to speak. "D'you want to go for a walk, or something?"   
  
Seamus lowers his drink. "A walk."   
  
"Yeah. Just a walk."   
  
"What -- out there?"   
  
"No, on the ceiling, you twat."  
  
"Fuck off."   
  
Another pause, and Dean stands up. He doesn't hold out his hand; only looks at Seamus expectantly. "It's just a walk, Shay."   
  
Just a walk. Seamus finally stands as well, and they head for the door. A walk at two a.m. is as good a start as any.   
  
**End**


End file.
